Page 44 of Saving Pookie

He grips my shoulder harder and jerks his head to the side, his eyes widening. "You really don't like Hamilton?"

I roll my eyes. "Been there, done that."

"You're not missing out on much then." He squeezes my shoulder once more before prying himself away from me. When he stands, it feels like the proverbial fur coat is being shed. It's not anger that's dissipating, though. It's something else. Comfort. He scratches at the back of his head. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go. I'm already running late, and you know how Talon gets when I'm late." He backs slowly to the door, like his feet are stuck in quicksand, like he doesn't really want to leave. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to shoot me a message." His lips hitch into a familiar smile, painted in gradients of mischief. "If you're a good boy, I'll even bring you back a birthday cake or something."

"You don't have to do that," I say, unable to hide the smile creeping across my own face. There's something about him that makes me feel... safe, seen. "I'll be in bed before you get back."

He nods once, quick and short. "Maybe cake in the morning, then?"

And then he's gone, his footsteps trailing down the hall.

I throw myself back in bed, my head landing like a comet on the pillows.

I awake sometime later in a fog, my mind heavy and my limbs sore—the consequence of an early evening nap that so often leaves your body feeling like it's been hit by a train. There's a loud knock, and it sounds like it's coming from the front door. I groan as I kick my feet off the edge of the bed and begin making the tortuous—albeit short—trek from my bedroom to the living room. There's another knock, harder than before, and as I draw closer to the door itself, my heart begins to race.

Fight or flight.

Sliding doors.

Every decision I make irrevocably changes my life, for better or worse.

Answering this door means one thing. Crawling back into bed, leaving the door unanswered, means another.

I'm tired of running, though.

I rip open the door without so much as looking out the peephole, and my jaw hits the floor.

Not Roger, or Cameron.

It's Braxton, dressed in an all-black suit instead of the jeans and pink cowboy boots he should be wearing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BRAXTON

"I would say surprise, but it'd feel redundant," I say, circling a finger over the surprised look on Pookie's face. "Long story short, I came down with a cold on my way to work, so I went shopping instead. Mr. Pink isn't too happy about having two of his stallions out for the night, but I told him it's better to be safe than sorry. He didn't agree and demanded I show up anyway." I purse my lips, barely able to hold back a chuckle. "He's not going to be happy the next time I see him."

Pookie stands there for a moment more, still wearing that trademarked confused face. It's kind of cute in a very hetero way. "Why are you dressed up?"

"I got you this." I hold out the bag I'm holding in my right hand. "I looked through your closet once and noticed you didn't have anything nice to wear."

Maybe that's not the most polite way of telling him he needs new clothes, but the clock is ticking, and I don't have time to be coy about it. The boy seriously needs a new wardrobe, one that includes fancy clothes. I'm sure he had plenty of them in his last life but chose to leave it all behind.

"What is this?" he asks with a frown, seemingly uninterested in the gift.

"It's a suit."

"No," he huffs. "I mean, what are you doing right now?"

I cock my head sideways. Isn't it obvious? "I'm taking you out for your birthday. It's not like a date or anything, but I..." I scratch at the side of my head, nervous for some reason. "Birthdays are supposed to be special. You shouldn't have to spend it alone."

Because people shouldn't have bad birthdays. It's the one day of the year that should be all about them. I had one of those insane sweet sixteen birthday parties when I was in high school. All of my friends showed up, got drunk off sugar with a little bit of vodka being sipped in the shadows, and then they all assembled on the front lawn to watch me get a brand new Jeep Wrangler. Somehow, birthdays have only gotten better since then.

"I told you, birthdays never turn out well for me," he says flatly. "You should have just gone to work like you were supposed to."

"I could say the same thing and yet here we are, both playing hooky." I push the bag towards him again, but he hesitates to accept it. His fingers dance so close to the roped coil of the handle, but he just can't bring himself to grab it. I roll my eyes, nudge past him, and make my way to his bedroom where I toss the bag onto his bed. When I turn back around, he's still standing at the end of the hall. "You have twenty minutes to get ready." I snap the tips of my fingers together. "Get moving."

He trudges down the hall, one heavy step at a time.